


conversations with the boar prince

by Cheshire



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, Just friends being friends, No Romance, ill add tags for the other characters as i add chapters, support conversations I wish we had, trying to pull dimitri back home
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2020-10-27 04:41:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20754494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheshire/pseuds/Cheshire
Summary: BL post-timeskip. Each of the Blue Lions attempts to reach out to Dimitri, because none of them have lost their faith in him.





	1. annette

**I. annette**

"Dimitri?" Annette called out from the entrance to the cathedral. She knocked on the door, a sound that echoed way more grandiosely than she expected. She clung to the door as if that would silence it; it didn't work. "Um. Hi! It's been a while since the last time we talked, huh?"

Dimitri regarded her with one eye, steely gazed, and far taller than Annette remembered him--towering, even. It wasn't her memory playing tricks on her. He _was_ a lot taller, and when she thought about it, he was always pretty broad too, but he'd never made her feel small. It was the opposite before. He always made _her_ feel tall, strong, and brave.  
  
She felt very, very small right now.  
  
Annette thrust a box in front her, hoisting it like a shield--like a farmer that had no clue how to use a shield. "Me and Mercie made cookies! I thought you might want one! Or two, or a dozen. They're really good. It's been five years, and her secret recipe has gotten soooo much better--_aAaaigh!_"  
  
Was that bench always there? _Why_ was that bench there? Who would put a bench there???  
  
She tumbled forward, the box flying into the air towards who knows where, and then--  
  
Then her face was inches from the ground, and she felt an incredible strength holding her up by her arm. She looked up, craning her neck awkwardly, and Dimitri's steely gaze hadn't changed. Yet he was there, close and warm with his fuzzy, furry cape that really was as comfy as it looked, ooh, _so soft_\--er, anyway.  
  
"Aha. Yeah, so, you're really fast! I forgot about that, actually. Thanks! Oh, but the cookies!" Annette stood back up--Dimitri let go of her the very moment she regained her balance. Honestly, she was surprised he'd bothered to catch her before she fell. Maybe that's just what people do when they're super strong and super fast? She wouldn't know anything about being strong strong or super fast.

The cookies were scattered all over the floor though, the box upside-down and dented beyond repair.

She bit her lip. "I'll get you another batch."  
  
"Don't bother," he replied with utmost finality.  
  
Had he always sounded like that? Probably not. She mostly remembered him sounding like puppies playing in fresh snow, except really honorable, noble puppies. He sounded a lot like murder right now.  
  
"They're really, really yummy cookies though. They're Mercie's, her cookies are like _magic_. They always put such a smile on my face, and you look like you haven't smiled in, you know, five years or so, so... smiley cookies. They make me smile. I thought maybe they would for you too."  
  
"_Don't_ bother."  
  
"Okay, well... okay! No cookies, I hear you." Her nerves stilled, and what remained was a young woman in thoughtful contemplation. No cookies seriously complicated matters. She needed to figure out a better way to proceed.  
  
"You should leave. I have nothing say to you," Dimitri said.  
  
"Well, I have something to say to you, how about that?" She brightened up when he glanced at her, as cold as before but he was listening at least. That counted for something. She announced, "I'm your girl!"  
  
"...What?"  
  
"I'm your girl!" she repeated. Duh. Obvious, right? "You know that, right? I'll leave, but I'm not leaving unless you know."  
  
"Yes, I heard you. I lost an eye, not an ear."

She waited to see if he'd kill her, or hurt her, or throw something at her, or whatever it is that angry men do. He didn't--and Annette wasn't surprised. He wouldn't. She had _always_ known he wouldn't, even if her fear thought otherwise.  
  
"Well--great! You're great! I'm great. We're all great." Annette clapped her hands in unconquerable good cheer--and it was genuine. He talked to her! Wow, she thought he'd just glare at her and stalk off!  
  
With a skip to every step, she bounded back out of the cathedral, aiming to beeline straight to the kitchens. At the doors, she suddenly stopped. "Wait, Dimitri! What do you think of pies?"  
  
"_Don't bother_," he said yet again, as if a different set of italics would change the result.  
  
"Peaches are in season. I'll talk to Mercie, it'll be amazing. Peach pies, but pielettes, little ones, personal sized. They're super tasty!"  
  
It didn't last long, but for a second, Dimitri looked absolutely baffled and not terrifying at all. Then it was gone, and it was back to resting murder face again. Still, it was a second, and Annete would take what she could get. With a quick fist punch into the air, she considered all this a job well done--even if she technically failed at literally everything she planned to do.  
  
The cathedral doors slowly slammed shut onto her glorious fist pump. It was very avoidable, and Annette failed to avoid it.  
  
"Owww!" The doors shook and then closed properly shut, hands free. Slightly muffled from the other side of the door, Annette called out, "I'm okay! I'll talk to you later, Dimitri! Bye!"


	2. sylvain

**II. sylvain**

"No," Dimitri said the moment Sylvain entered the cathedral.

Sylvain stared at him in disbelief. Here he was, just taking the time to check on his friend(?), and _wow_, that was a start. Not even a hello, not that Sylvain really expected a hello.

"I didn't even say anything yet," Sylvain protested, but not quite unhappily. He thought he’d get stabbed for his troubles, so this talk was already going better than he feared--but not as well as he’d hoped.

Dimitri's expression didn't change, unmoved, more like a distant god than an old friend. "No to women."

"...Oh, that's not fair, Your Highness. You changed after five years, what makes you think I haven't? Maybe I'm different now. Maybe I've found myself a nice lady and settled down, did you think of that?"

Dimitri crossed his arms in front of him. He scowled with his perfect eyebrows furrowed just so. "I doubt it."

It's hard to make eye contact with a guy with only one eye, Sylvain realized. It was a weird angle, or maybe what was making it weird was just that Dimitri and him actually saw eye to eyes now. Then again, maybe it was just hard to make eye contact with a mass of furs, armor, and sheer concentrated vengeful loathing.

Or maybe it was Dimitri that didn't want to face Sylvain--because Sylvain was trying real hard here, and he couldn’t help but feel he wasn’t being met anywhere near halfway.

"Alright. If--_if_, that's a hypothetical--you were interested in going down to the village and picking up some girls, I wouldn't object." He grinned, like an asshole, just as he always had. “It’d go real well for you, handsome. Girls love a brooding noble.”

Sylvain’s voice dropped to something quieter, softer, but too cold to be gentle. “But, no, you misjudged me, Your Highness. I want to talk about the war.”

"...You're serious, for once," Dimitri observed.

"Well, there's a lot to be serious about. First time in two hundred years that a Gautier brought the Lance of Ruin south instead of north. I've been a busy man! Ugh, it's terrible, really. These days, if I see a lovely lady? It's 'well, maybe next time.' I hope they're all still single next time."

“Barely serious, I stand corrected." Dimitri’s disappointment in him was downright nostalgic.

"Mostly serious.” Couldn’t be too serious. Too serious too fast ran the risk of His Highness putting up his hackles. He wasn’t here to pick a fight, after all. “Your Highness. What’s our plan for _after_ you kill Edelgard?”

The way he hesitated, Sylvain figured Dimitri didn't have a plan. Nevertheless, Dimitri answered, “After she dies, then the dead can finally rest, and perhaps I can too.”

"Does that mean you're going to come pick up girls with me, or that you're going to _die_? Because there's a big difference between the two."

The silence Dimitri gave in response really wasn't the answer Sylvain had hoped for.

“Your Highness, the only thing that ends after you kill Edelgard is her life. If cutting off the serpent’s head could bring us peace, then Faerghus would’ve had peace with Sreng hundreds of years ago. War doesn’t end just like that.” He paused, and then Sylvain pushed his luck as far as he dared. “Besides, we don’t even know if Edelgard’s the serpent’s head. She was just a little kid back during the Tragedy of Duscur. You think she’s responsible for all those deaths back then? Even if she was involved, there’s got to be someone else behind it all.”

“_What_ are you trying to say, Sylvain? When Edelgard's body falls lifeless to the ground in bloody pieces, then--and _only_ then--the dead can find their peace.”

"Peace for the dead is no peace for the living. You can kill Edelgard, but she's not the end, and who knows if she's even the beginning." He coached his voice carefully, calm and chatty, but thoroughly serious, like two friends talking late into the night. Sylvain said, "Blood for blood, Your Highness--war is a cycle. We march into Adrestia. We fight, and we kill. And then, when we go home, _if_ we go home, their sons and daughters will sharpen their swords and spears for their own revenge, and here we go, all over again."

"You don't need to convince me that war makes monsters of men."

“...War? No, _you_ will make monsters of men, Dimitri.” Well, shit. Too serious, too fast, should've known better. The flash of anger in the lights of Dimitri’s eye, the way he _moved_, like a predator finding its focus--Sylvain sighed. Of course it was the truth that hit a little too hard. He thought he’d been making headway too, and here Sylvain was, tempting death like a fool (that made two of them, except people would actually miss Dimitri if Dimitri died).

Alright. Commence operation backpedal, also known as operation useless ladies man.

“I’m just saying there’s a lot to live for, Your Highness! Like food, friends, round two of revenge, and girls? Definitely girls.” There it was, the same miffed disappointment that Sylvain associated with Dimitri, not the blind rage of someone too far gone to grief. Sylvain breathed a little easier. “_Not_ girls, right, we just went over that. Well, whatever it is you still like. Live a little, Dimitri, before we all go die a lot."

He received only silence mixed with an ample serving of old-fashioned disgust. Dimitri was done with Sylvain, and Sylvain supposed this had been an okay talk. There was more to say, such as hey, please try to live, we'd all be sad if you died, also Fhirdiad is starving to death, maybe you should become king, and your people are dying, so if you could do something about that that'd be swell, please and thanks.

But all that could wait for next time.


	3. Ingrid

**III. ingrid**

Dimitri had his back to the cathedral entrance, so Ingrid circled left and far around, just so she could approach him from the side he could actually see. He would’ve heard her either way, she realized, but still, she wanted to be considerate.

He turned to watch her, an even gaze, patient in a way that reminded her of wolves in the winter. When they were both silent, waiting for the other to speak first, Dimitri raised an eyebrow, prompting Ingrid to either speak or leave.

Okay. Well, then, here goes.

“Hello, Your Highness,” Ingrid said. Her voice wavered, but what made it tremble wasn’t fear. She wasn’t afraid of the man Glenn died to save--she didn’t think she could ever be. “I know you don’t really want to talk to anybody, but I just… I want to apologize. I’m sorry.”

At first, Ingrid thought she’d somehow angered him--more than he already was, it was his constant state now--but after his emotions settled, Dimitri only looked unfathomably tired. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“But I do,” she protested. “I could’ve been with you--I _should_ have been with you. Instead, I went back home to see my father, but he was fine. I should’ve known that. I should’ve gone straight to Fhirdiad instead.”

“You? What use could you have been?" He spoke with disgust, the way she had only ever heard when he talked about death or Duscur. He'd never spoke of _her_ in that way before. "You'd have died, just like everyone else."

"You don't know that, and even if I died, the sacrifice might have been worth it!" She crossed her arms. Ingrid wasn’t _angry_, but she was--ugh, she didn’t know. Upset? Everything about seeing Dimitri like this was upsetting, and the worst part of it was that she'd been absent from his life for all these years.

"I didn’t need or want your sacrifice,” Dimitri answered. “I needed to flee Fhirdiad, and I did."

Ingrid stared at him in disbelief, not entirely certain why she needed to spell this out. "Your Highness, you have one eye left, and Dedue is _dead_. There are many things about your escape from Fhirdiad that could have gone better. A _lot_ better."

His tone remained harsh, but Dimitri's next words were, she found, kinder--sort of. Mostly, it was just sadder. "None of that matters anymore. There's nothing left for me but revenge. The dead long for it, as do I. Once my vengeance is complete, then you may wash your hands of me."

That was almost decent of him to say, but when the bar to clear for _almost_ decent was set by Sylvain and Felix, it wasn’t a high bar. What was she supposed to do with yet another boy running headlong into disaster?

What was there left to do for a man like this? She’d protect him--her prince, someday her king, her _friend_. That was all she could do, and all anyone could aspire to do. 

Bracing herself for the worst, Ingrid took a deep breath, and then she asked, “Your Highness, are we still friends?"

The question caught him off guard. "We…" He started a word, but he didn't get any further than that. He tried again and decided against that too. When he looked at her, he looked away just as quickly.

"...No," Dimitri said at last, but he was uncertain, his grim countenance traded away for a lost soul, fumbling in the dark. "I hold your valor and your lance in high esteem, but I have no use for friendship anymore."

She could work with that. She could _rebuild_ from that.

"Do you remember when we first met, Your Highness? We were children, you asked me what brought me to Fhirdiad." Ingrid waited for him to nod, until she knew he was listening. "My father sent me there in hopes I'd find a suitor, but I told you that I dreamed of becoming a knight. You made sure that could happen. You were there for me, always. I couldn’t have asked for a better friend than you."

She could tell he hadn’t forgotten. This was an old story to him, one that he’d lived through and didn’t really think about anymore. She didn’t think about it much either, but she thought he could use the reminder that not everyone he’d cared for had died. He’d cared for too many people for that to ever happen.

Ingrid said, "So I want you to know this, Your Highness. When you’re done with your revenge, I won’t leave you. You’re going to have to find something else to fight for, so that my valor and my lance can go to good use."

“...Very well. Do what you want.”

"A lot of have died for you. It’s true, I can’t deny that, but a lot of people are still alive and fighting in your name. That’s because of you too. You lifted me up back then, when all I should’ve been to you was a poor noble girl with no business taking up your time, and I know you’ve helped more people than just me. Now, it’s my turn--our turn--to do the same for you."

That was her piece. Ingrid wondered if she was supposed to do something before leaving, like saluting or bowing, but Dimitri wasn’t even looking. In the end, she simply turned away and left, feeling almost as awkward as she had as little girl.

"Ingrid," he called out to her from the rubble that was once the cathedral's dais. He was too far away for her to read his face, but his voice carried, more resonant than before. "I’d rather have you here now, than dead in Fhirdiad, so take your apologies away with you. I won’t endure them again.”


	4. mercedes

**iv. mercedes**

The smell of summer peaches made it into the cathedral before Mercedes did herself. It was a pleasant smell, a simple smell of home and hearth. After Annette had returned from the cathedral last month, they had made a special effort to find the perfect peaches for their next baking endeavor.

The smell didn't tempt Dimitri, who kept his back turned to her.

Mercedes approached from the left, in sight even from a distance, but the peach pies announced her presence well enough. "Hello, Dimitri," she said.

"...Go away," he answered, if that counted as answering.

"Oh, I won't be here for too long. I know the ambiance isn't quite the same, but I thought now that the cathedral has seen some repairs, I could pray here again." She giggled, a fine, delicate sound, not like silver bells but like the _feeling_ of silver bells. "I also brought you some pies! Annette insisted."

He sighed. "I told her not to." 

"You really did? She said they were for you, but I thought she just wanted me to bake another batch before peaches went out of season." She added, "I made sure they'd have a lovely fragrance in case they really were for you though."

She was right. It was a sprinkling of nutmeg, a dash of vanilla, a generous serving of cinnamon, all undercut with just the right amount of brandy. Par for the course for her, the flaky pastry crust was nothing short of divine, and it smelled divine too.

“A ridiculous waste. It’ll only taste of ashes to me,” Dimitri replied. They both knew he wasn’t exaggerating, though Mercedes thought he was being a little overdramatic.

“Yes, that’s why I made sure they’d be very fragrant,” she repeated, her tone completely unchanged, but there was somehow the suggestion that she didn’t want to repeat it again.

There wasn’t a goddess statue anymore, but Mercedes knelt before the rubble, placing the serving bowl of pie-lettes besides her.

She closed her eyes and prayed. Occasionally, she heard squeaks of rodents foraging, followed by a deliberate tapping of a lance against the ground to chase the rats away.

The one time she heard the telltale sound of a lance drawn back to strike, Mercedes coughed pointedly.

Briefly, she felt the warmth of his cape brush against her side, and then Dimitri stepped away from her. The rats still skittered about, but the scent of the pies was further away and out of their reach.

When she finished praying, she looked up at Dimitri standing next to her. He held the tray of pies in one hand, discontent. He tried handing the pies back to her--but that was far from his first mistake. They were his pies now. She wasn’t taking them back.

“Oh, thank you,” Mercedes said, taking a single pie from the tray.

“...” Dimitri said, loudly and adamantly and with a tray full of little peach pies that belonged to him now.

Mercedes didn’t give him enough time to contemplate throwing the tray at her--she didn’t think he would, but he might, and that would’ve just been a mess. “Why don’t we step outside?” she suggested. “We could feed the birds.”

Dimitri glanced out the archways to the left, where the cathedral opened to a view of brilliantly blue skies and puffy white clouds. “There’s already vermin enough in here, if you must be so foolish.”

“That’s true, but the weather’s just so nice today, don’t you think?“ She giggled again, though it was impossible to tell what exactly she found so funny. “I think so anyway. Come along with me, Dimitri. It’s been so long since we talked, and we shouldn’t feed the rats. They’ll keep coming back to you if you do.”

Mercedes hadn’t entered the cathedral with any plans except to pray and, if Dimitri in fact wanted any pies, giving Dimitri peach pie-lettes. Nevertheless, here she was, him walking beside her, as she crumpled fresh perfect pies into bird-friendly pieces.

“Lend me a hand, Dimitri?” she asked, and he did so, offering a steady grip as she climbed up onto the ledge between them and plummeting to death. It wasn’t too dangerous as long as she was careful, and Dimitri certainly didn’t stop her. “Thank you! You always were such a perfect gentleman.”

From there, Mercedes tossed bits of peach pie at all the birds that flew by, though she used a handkerchief to keep her hands mostly clean from the gooey bits. “You know, it’s been so long since I’ve had the chance to just pass the time like this. War is so much rushing around, and then it’s such uncomfortable waiting, but this--this is nice.”

Dimitri didn’t partake, but he listened--it may only have been because he wanted Mercedes to rid him of all the pies, but she wasn’t fussing over the minor details.

It was a one-sided conversation, but Mercedes chatted (not chattered) away about anything that came to her mind: her family, her fears, her future. She filled the air with the wonderful aroma of peaches and pastry, and she filled the silence with what morsels of her soul she could offer.

When she ran out of pies, Dimitri helped her down from the ledge without prompting (Mercedes wondered if it was instinct for him, to offer a hand to help--she believed it was), and she hopped back down to the stone floor.

“Well, I enjoyed that,” she said. Mercedes smiled beautifically. “Next time, I’d like to hear about what you’ve been up to.”

He released her hand and turned back for the cathedral, looming in that way he was so good at now. Not facing her, Dimitri said, “I’m not sure that you do.”

“Oh, I don’t think it’ll be comfortable listening, I know it won’t be, but doesn’t that mean it’s all the more important for someone to listen?”

With the same words but a gentler tone, Dimitri said again, “...Go away.”

This time, Mercedes left him be, to brood in the cathedral if that’s what he wanted to do. Next time though, perhaps he would want to talk, and she could listen.


	5. felix

**V. felix**

Day in, day out, the boar stood there--uselessly, Felix thought, though that made him just as useless, since he was there too. They both spent their idle hours in the cathedral, as if the world weren’t at war, and neither of them had anything better to do.

Felix wasn’t hiding, nor had he ever hidden since they’d retaken the monastery. The boar knew he was and had been there. Felix told himself that he just didn’t have anything to say to the boar, nor the boar to him, not until today.

“Boar,” Felix said, and Dimitri answered to it more readily than he answered to his own name. Felix wasn’t sure that was a good thing. “They’re holding a war council before we attack the Bridge of Myrddin. You should be there.”

“Did Ingrid send you?” Dimitri asked. (His voice was so different now. Five years had changed them all, but the man before him now was the person Felix hoped the boar would never become.) “Or is that _your_ opinion?”

“Both,” Felix answered with a shrug.

Dimitri turned to face him, and Felix--well. Felix wondered _why_ Dimitri had grown so tall while Felix definitively hadn’t, and if he could somehow coerce Dimitri into sitting down so he wouldn’t have to look so far up at him.

“The Professor asked for you too,” Felix added, and if that was a little manipulative, it was nevertheless the truth.

He’d hoped that would get more of a response from Dimitri. He’d always liked the Professor, but he was as impassive as before. Then the boar laughed, mirthless, and he said, “Hypocritical of you to tell _me_ to attend, when you never do.”

“Why would I need to be there?” Felix demanded. “I’m a soldier. Byleth tells me who to fight, and I'll go fight them. I don’t need to be involved in the planning.”

“Neither do I. I’ll cut down whoever stands between me and Edelgard. Whatever stratagems the Professor devises isn’t my concern.”

“_You_ are the king.” Felix crossed his arms, and his scowl went deeper than usual. “You can at least show up.”

“I haven’t a crown to be a king,” Dimitri replied.

He had half a mind to run to the blacksmith and have them make a bloody crown, if that was so important, but it _wasn’t_ important. It was roughly the least important thing.

“You might not have an ugly ring of metal on your forehead, so what? You have an _army_, boar, and this army of yours marches on Enbarr, because _you_ said so--but this war machine is somehow not your responsibility?”

“All of you fight for Faerghus, for the living. I fight for a different cause.” For a moment, that sounded like the end of the conversation, and Felix struggled to find something to say that wasn’t some variation of _you’re a fool_. Then Dimitri added, “I am thankful for your strength, but we are separate parties with a common goal. We are not allies.”

Bullshit. There was no reality where anyone could believe that Dimitri was just tagging along with Faerghus’ army as, what, a houseguest? The very thought was ridiculous, and even moreso if Dimitri thought Felix would buy it. The boar wasn’t always smart, but he was never _stupid_.

Felix considered his words carefully. He knew what cards he held. He knew the one that no one else had played. “Your father would’ve been at the head of the war council. He always was, even as a prince.”

He expected anger, and maybe it was there, but it barely lasted a second. Dimitri only looked bitter--and wounded. ”Don’t pretend to know what the dead would--”

“Oh, shut up. He might be dead now, but he was alive first. I knew Lambert as well as you know my father. He would’ve led, as a king or as just a man, and you know it.”

Again, Felix expected anger. What he gets, besides all the anger that’s already there, latent and fomenting for ten years, was a long silence and an uncomfortable sense of guilt.

At last, the boar replied, “I’m not my father.”

“Obviously not.”

Felix sighed. His patience always ran thin with the boar, but the fear of reporting to Ingrid with <i>You were right, he was willing to talk, but I got mad at him, oops</i> held him back. “Whatever you are, don’t be a stranger, boar.”

“Am I _not_ a stranger?” Dimitri demanded. “It’s been five years. Do you recognize me, Felix? I look into a mirror, and I hardly recognize myself--”

“This is ridiculous,” Felix interrupted. He bridged the distance between them, only a few steps, and grabbed Dimitri by his arm. For a second, he waited--he challenged, Dimitri in his grasp and tempers fraying on both their parts.

Neither of them reached for a weapon: Dimitri presumably because he doesn’t want to, and Felix because he doesn’t need to.

“_Of course_, I recognize you, boar. Do you really think an eyepatch and a cape is a brilliant disguise? Be serious,” Felix snapped. “Let’s go.”

The boar seethed, but when Felix started walking out of the cathedral and towards the council room, Dimitri followed. He nearly ran into Felix at first, until he slowed his pace, longer and slower strides as Felix led him wherever he wanted to go.

He’d done this before when they were children, many a time, one child leading another. Where they went, they went together. For all their years apart, at least this much hadn’t changed.


End file.
